bloodsport (fighting in a love war)
by swaggercaptain
Summary: rival assassins AU: they live in a world rife with death and destruction (of which they are often the cause) - is it even possible to feel anything other than the thrill of the kill?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So basically, this is not going to be your atypical linear story where each chapter picks up where the last left off - it's really just a bunch of one-shots strung together in order of occurrence so they're shorter than my other ones but they'll also be updated a lot quicker. I really hope you guys all like it, and feel free to send prompts to my tumblr for these two idiots. Voila!**

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><p><em>1. even angels sin: Killian Jones comes across a very interesting blonde.<em>

The first time their paths cross, it happens in the heart of a brothel (of all places). He sits in a booth, leaning languidly against the plush red cushions as prospective women swirl around the room in delicate lace lingerie that leaves little to the imagination.

His disreputable peers claw at them with greedy paws and open pockets, scurrying after them like dogs desperate for a rub.

Though he does not make a move to purchase his pleasure (god knows he can get _that _for free), he nevertheless peruses the room. To the untrained eye he is searching for a companion; his focus, however, is on someone else completely.

His target enters the establishment shortly after Killian arrives. A regular at this particular club, the stout man leers at the crowd of courtesans that fawn over his entrance. There are two burly guards stationed behind him, but they are quickly preoccupied by the more lavish attractions of the enterprise, trailing behind several women beckoning them with sultry smirks and crooked fingers.

Killian's fingers drift across the blade he has strapped to his wrist, masked by his blazer and the shadows concealing him in the back corner of the large room.

Smirking to himself, he contemplates the new arms he will purchase with his pay cheque. There is nothing that makes Killian Jones happier than a shiny new gun in his ever-expanding repertoire of weaponry.

He watches his target idly as the robust man draws away from the crowd of ambitious ladies. His eye has been caught by someone else, and Killian follows the man's line of sight to where a blonde is perched atop a plush chaise on the opposite side of the room.

And really, he cannot fault the man's taste.

Her pallid skin glows in the low light, hair like spun gold falling in curls down her back as she returns his hungry gaze with a simper and stands at his approach.

She looks like an angel with all the unbridled lust of a vixen.

There is no trace of shame to the heat that stirs in his lower abdomen. After all, it's been a while (the mercenary business is surprisingly thriving of late – leaving little time for the more lascivious pleasures of life).

And she really is something else.

Taking his heavy hand in hers, she begins to lead the target towards one of the curtained rooms that line the east wall of the joint - heavy burgundy fabric shuttering off the private sections where the high-paying clientele can enjoy their purchases for the evening.

It is then that Killian stands, reaffirming his grip on the knife hidden in his sleeve and sifting through the crowds of writhing men and women. This is the window of opportunity he's been waiting for: seclusion makes for a clean death.

The crowds are not dense enough to completely obscure his view of his mark and he sees the blonde gesture for him to go first into the small room. His stubby hand drifts deliberately over her ass as he obliges, strutting past her into the private chamber – and though she simpers at the action, the dark shadow that crosses her features denotes something dangerous.

The way she scans the immediate vicinity before drawing the curtains closed piques his interest as well.

For a split second, her sultry facade drops to reveal something far colder, far more calculating: he's tempted to call it _lethal_.

It is another three minutes at most before he finally reaches the other side of the room, the flailing masses of customers and courtesans impeding his direct path. And as he walks calmly toward the target's location, he watches the blonde woman slip inconspicuously out, closing the curtains behind her.

A weight settles in his gut. Not fear – there are only so few things that can induce terror in him and suspicious women is not among them.

She strides by him, a smile on her lips and a minuscule red stain on her previously pristine garter.

When her eye catches his, recognition glitters in the emerald green depths of her gaze. It's not reciprocal – he has _no idea_ who she is (he'd remember a face like hers).

As she passes, she definitely winks. He almost doesn't catch the way her expression screams, _'better luck next time'_ because he hurries his pace, alarm morphing into irritation at the overriding thought that dawns on him: she knows what he is.

Killian curses the moment he enters the private room. The man sits spread eagle across the leather couch, dark red blood seeping from the precise abrasion that runs the length of his neck.

As much as he wanted the money this rather lucrative job offered, he cannot help his begrudging admiration for the woman's gall.

By the time he sprints outside, she is already dressed head-to-toe in black, straddling a motorbike that roars to life before it thunders past him, disappearing into the night in a thick cloud of exhaust and cigarette smoke. Distantly, he acknowledges a horrified scream emanating from the brick edifice behind him, and starts to walk towards his hired sedan.

And for some godforsaken reason, he laughs. Low and deep and genuine.

Later, he asks Jefferson what alias she runs under in their circles.

He cannot think of a name more fitting than Swan.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You are all fabulous and I love you.**

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><p><em>2. curiosity killed the cat: He wants her first name; she wants to eat his ego. <em>

"What's your name?" he asks, tipping his head to the side, scanning her from top to bottom. She's wearing a tight red dress and heels, the multi-coloured strobe lights tinting her pearly skin a wide array of rather fetching colours.

She rolls her eyes and continues her assessment of the nightclub, ignoring him where he leans against the mahogany bar at her right.

Never let it be said that Killian Jones isn't a persistent man.

Her dismissal only endears him and he takes a measured sip from the glass of rum in his hand. They both know their mark won't arrive for another half hour at the very least (they both did their homework).

"You know love," he tells her smoothly, "while others may find your silence off-putting, it does nothing to deter me. In fact, your silence only makes me more curious."

"And don't you know curiosity killed the cat?" she finally retorts, still blankly examining the room.

"I'm sure the cat thought it was worth it."

"The cat was an idiot."

"Not a fan of felines then?"

Finally, she twists to face him. Her unimpressed expression deepens his already present smirk of amusement and induces a beat of wordless staring (glaring on her part) that passes between them. Then she's turning her attention to the bartender. She orders her drink in a flawless rendition of Spanish but does not address Killian again. In fact, she deliberately angles herself away from him.

He always did love a challenge.

"So is there any particular reason you're not telling me your name?"

The sidelong glance she shoots him is accompanied by the faintest twitch of her lips.

"A little birdy told me you already know it."

Killian narrows his eyes, "I know your alias. I want your _real_ name." He pauses, frowns, "How do you even know I searched your alias?"

She shrugs innocently, "I have friends."

He makes a mental note to ask Jefferson about that. The notion that she can trace his research habits unnerves him and annoys him in equal parts. For one, that kind of exposure can be fatal (Killian has, unsurprisingly, made enemies). For another thing, if she knows what he's been investigating then it won't be long before she's pilfering his clients. And that will not bode well for either of them – if anything, Killian is competitive.

There is another long pause where the nightclub's deafening music thunders in concussive booms around them. Vibrating in his blood stream as he refocuses on her.

"Come on, love. What's the harm in giving a humble acquaintance your name?" he leans closer, oozing charm. Her face is inches from his, yet she is stoic – about as affected by his proximity as she is by the macabre nature of her profession.

With schooled features, she cocks a sceptical eyebrow.

"You mean, what's the harm in giving my personal details to a rival merc?" she taps her chin and feigns deep thought, "_Hm_. I don't know." The sarcasm is thick enough to taste in the air and he grins before pulling away to an appropriate distance. Swan's eyes never leave his, a challenge in their emerald depths.

It occurs to him that the only way he'll extract personal information from her will require some brand of manipulation. Though he is averse to making any move to influence this woman, he is also ardently aware of her most predominant flaw: her egotism. She's a woman who eats men for breakfast and picks her teeth with their bones. So, it naturally follows that all he has to do is offer _his_ ego up on a platter – draw her into agreeing to a bet, one that will indubitably benefit her and embarrass him (should she win).

"Alright," he concedes with raised palms, "What about a wager?"

This catches her attention swiftly enough.

Sitting a little straighter, she sips lightly from her drink. With a nod of approval, he elucidates.

His answering grin is wicked.

"If I get the kill, I get your name. If you win…" he tilts his head in consideration, studying her, "I'll withdraw from the next four hits and refer the clients onto you."

"I'll get the next four kills _without _your referral."

_Arrogant bint._

Killian sighs, "Alright, how about this: I'll drop out of the merc game for four months. That's four months' worth of clientele, income and infamy without so much as a peep from me."

Even in the sporadic lighting of the nightclub, he can make out the way her face twists into a darker, demented version of enthusiasm. She purses her lips and twirls her drink with her finger. She's considering it.

Something about taking him down a notch must be incredibly appealing to her. Although, that _is _what he anticipated.

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"I consider myself an honourable man, a man with a code. And that means I seldom break my promises," he tells her, eyeing her with a strange sort of intensity.

"What will you do for four months?" she asks.

He shrugs, "Do you care?"

Mimicking his gesture, she shakes her head, "You're right. I don't."

"So do we have an accord?"

At length, Swan nods.

"Deal."

As she sways past him, she murmurs in his ear, "I need a new set of silencers anyway."

8888

Victory is sweet and her name is Emma (he just catches it through her zealous cursing as she stomps away from the nightclub, dress torn and stained by blood, carrying her ruined heels deftly by their straps) (the woman has the mouth of a sailor) (he appreciates that). The vowels and consonants roll deliciously over his tongue as he tastes it for the first time.

Emma Swan.

He rather likes it.

It suits her.

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Prompts can be sent via either PM or my tumblr - I do not mind which you choose. By the way, the first couple are short but they get longer (as my self-control gets weaker).**

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><p><em>3. silk and blood and bullets: Killian seems to have a habit of running into Emma Swan but he can't say he minds when she looks like this. <em>

They stand in a marble ballroom. He wears a tailored suit, she wears a silk dress. And there are any number of weapons hidden on their person - granted hers must be in far harder to reach locations considering the way the thin material clings to her. It only makes him run his tongue along the edges of his teeth.

A man is standing at the front of the room, probably the host, prattling on about some philanthropic adventure or another – an altruistic diatribe that does nothing to stir warmth in the cockles of Killian's soul. He's fairly certain he doesn't even possess the intangible embodiment of conscience; or if he does, it's shrivelled and charred, burnt because this world is indiscriminately merciless. Then again, soullessness must be a common affliction in his profession.

Swallowing the bile that builds in his throat at the strangely unnerving thought, he wades discreetly through the crowd of affluent men and women until he stands directly behind her. He leans forward so his lips brush the shell of her ear. To his disappointment, she doesn't react to his proximity; not in the way he'd expected (he should know by now to dismantle any suppositions he has of this woman). She is as collected and calm as if a gentle breeze had simple rustled her dress.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," he whispers.

Her eyebrows ascend her forehead, the soft material of her dress rippling as she rotates on the spot to face him, complimentary glass of champagne in hand. Evidently, she recognises his voice because there is no trace of surprise in her apathetic expression.

"And here I was thinking I might actually have a nice night."

"That hurts, darling," he rebukes, feigning insult. Then, with a shrug and a wolfish grin, "But where's the fun in no healthy competition, eh?"

She adopts a non-smile, baring her teeth derisively, "Calling you healthy competition seems like a _bit_ of a stretch don't you think?"

The jeer rolls right off his shoulders and he shuffles closer to her, very deliberately invading her space. Still, she remains unfazed, holding her own and maintaining his heavy gaze, even as his chest brushes against hers and the toes of his shoes nudge at hers.

"Remind me again, _how_ do I know your name?" he taunts knowingly.

Emma's face instantly darkens as they both recall a thriving nightclub, a dead man, and a very important bet. His smile, if possible, broadens as he drinks in her petulant expression, greedily committing it to memory. Then she rolls her eyes and turns to face the man still boasting his humanitarian exploits. Killian takes a step forward so they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, blindly watching this evening's benefactor.

"Besides," he murmurs, just loud enough to reach her ears, "There's only one reason you stole that first kill, darling. And that's because you had an unfair advantage."

If possible, her eyebrows rise even further as she takes a measured sip from her fluted glass of champagne.

"Oh?"

"Indeed. You see, we're on equal ground now. You cannot _seduce_ this target."

At some point in time, they returned to facing each other because now she's crowding _his _personal space as she leans closer, challenging him.

"How would you know?" she practically purrs, eyes sparkling under the chandelier's lighting.

He narrows his eyes, drinking in her image and canting his head to the side, "Because this one isn't looking for a romp and you know it - we both did the recon."

"You don't have to want sex to be seduced."

"Is that so?"

"Mmhmm," she hums.

"Prove it."

Emma's flicker transiently between his eyes and his lips, stoking the heat below his waist to grow into a steady flame. Then, with all the grace and prowess of a jungle cat, she takes a smooth yet abrupt step away from him, eyes glittering as she stifles their heady moment.

"You couldn't handle it."

She's turning around before he can say another word, whispering over her shoulder so only he can hear, "That and you _definitely_ want to have sex with me." She disappears into the crowd on a dismissive shrug.

Killian shakes his head, but can't ignore the twitching of his lips.

(Or the thick tension that still hangs between them in the air, choking him slowly – deliciously)

8888

They don't see each other until hours later when the ballroom is a cacophony of gunfire and smoke - she was wrong to assume she would be the only mercenary on this particular objective. The guests have all dispersed, scattering the moment they heard the thunderous clap of a gunshot. Now, the room is framed on all sides by ulteriorly motivated men and women scrambling to take out their mark who has, more or less, retired to the second landing for safekeeping.

Huddled behind a table, he can see Emma crouched behind a nearby wall, a thin line of blood trickling down her temple and staining the soft material of her dress. Which is a shame, really – it's a nice dress. He supposes mercenaries don't typically own very man nice things for that exact reason (they always, somehow, get destroyed or forgotten in the heat of a fight or the suddenness of flight).

_Her_ eyes are alight with the thrill of the fight.

Especially when they're the only ones left, bodies littering the downstairs ballroom, racing for the upstairs bedroom where the proverbial meal ticket awaits. He manages to trip her at the foot of the stairs, taking them two at a time as she swears profusely behind him. Over his shoulder, he sees her rip the bottom of the dress off and race after him with the improved mobility. But he's already advancing on the target, eyes on the prize.

So, naturally, Emma shoots him in the shoulder.

He stumbles but otherwise ignores the intense pain blossoming there. After all, he's ambidextrous and he has a job to do.

He shifts the gun to his left hand and buries two rounds in the target before Emma can so much as aim. Needless to say, he learns a thing or two about creative cussing when he next hears her voice.

8888

Eventually they find themselves outside, running from the mansion as the gunfire continues to pierce the night. His shoulder screams at him with every jaunt, but he's had worse (an incident with the Koreans comes to mind and he still winces just thinking about it). When they eventually stop, he leans heavily against a tree and turns to where she is breathing heavily at his left.

And yes, he is definitely smug when he tells her, "This healthy competition just got paid."

She rolls her eyes, cracks her neck and walks away. Not before slapping him in the shoulder. Bitch.

He watches her disappear into the darkness, a strange mixture of bitterness and fondness taking root inside of him. The bullet wound redraws his attention and he stares at the mangled skin beneath his soot-stained dress shirt. She shot him. So why doesn't he automatically despise her? Not many people have shot him and lived to tell the tale.

That thought plagues him.

There is a convoluted game of cat and mouse unfolding between them.

The only problem is that he's not quite sure who is the cat and who is the mouse.

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><p><strong>Reviews are bullets in our lovebirds' guns.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_4. fool me once: Even merc's have a code._

Their eyes lock the second he pulls into the sterile office room, ice blue crashing against jade green in a violent meeting of land and sky. Holding his gun aloft, Killian moves slowly forward – she's standing directly between him and the mark, her weapon on the floor from where she'd discarded it in favour of bodily interrogating the man in the chair.

"Move."

A ghost of a smirk flits across her darkened features.

It almost unnerves him to see her void of her trademark characteristic: her subtle-branded mirth.

"Nope."

"I owe you a bullet, darling," he reminds her calmly, rolling his shoulder for emphasis. Spreading her arms wide, Emma merely shrugs, keeping her eyes trained on him – no doubt weighing up how quickly he can pull the trigger if she chooses to do something unbelievably stupid.

"Go ahead," she dares him.

The muffled anger swells in his gut, churning when he thinks about the fact that she _shot _him the last time they crossed paths. He certainly hasn't forgotten about it. He's been brainstorming his recompense for weeks now.

He's pulled back to reality when the man in the chair, sporting several bruises and a heavily split brow, whimpers pathetically. Killian rolls his eyes and takes another measured step forward. Emma tilts her head, shifting her weight resolutely, a silent reminder that she still impedes his path.

"Swan," he warns in a low voice.

"Yeah?"

"_Move_."

Again, she shakes her head and tips her head up in defiance. "Pull the trigger."

Somehow, she knows he just won't.

A part of him wants to do it just to show her he will. To defy her just for the inane bloody sake of it.

With narrowed eyes, he instead studies the intriguing way she has positioned herself, torso angled to shield the mark behind her. Craning his neck, he looks at the man again – he's trembling, bruises blossoming all over his face. It appears as though he's been sitting there for a significant amount of time. But Emma's not the type to play with her meal ticket.

"...Why haven't you killed him yet?" he asks, taking another step forward.

She matches it, closing some of the distance between them, "None of your business."

There's a pause, the clogs turning slowly, clicking and interlocking together within his skull.

"Are you _interrogating_ him?"

"Jealous?" Emma smirks, a deflection if he's ever seen one. For whatever reason, she's trying to hide her motives, shroud them in barbed quips and heavy scorn. She should know better than to make a ploy for distraction; it only piques his interest.

"_Oh yes_," he replies sarcastically, "I haven't had a good beating in a while."

"I bet."

Again, a pregnant pause stretches out where he analyses the scenario before him. Nothing about it screams possessiveness. So, he can rule out this job being personally linked to her – he knows with stunning clarity just what it feels like (and what it ultimately _looks _like) to want to be the one to kill someone for no other reason than the satisfaction of being the cause of their death. Shivers run down his spine as a hard bald face with beady eyes swims in his mind's eye. He shakes it off quickly.

Darting his gaze between the quivering man and her stoic mask, he tilts his head curiously. Even if she's not personally invested, there's an element to her approach that stumps him. Based on his observations of the target, her violent ministrations so far have been merciless. It screams of unfettered rage.

"Why are you interrogating him?" he asks with an earnest frown.

Emma's calm mask drops like an anvil, the simmering fury bubbling to life on her face, "None. Of. Your. _Business_."

Killian exhales heavily, exhausted. All he wants is to take out his mark, go home, and sleep. It's been a long day, and the only thing currently standing in the way of that is _her_.

He's not nearly psychologically prepared (or drunk enough) for her shit. Not today.

"Whatever. Your mother clearly never taught you not to play with your food," he says dismissively, striding towards her and throwing his other arm out to shove her blandly aside. However, she dodges and uses his momentum against him, knocking the weapon out of his hand and lobbing him on the shoulder in one smooth motion.

"I don't have a mother," she hisses, trying to kick him.

He catches her leg and pulls it up so she drops to the floor. He straddles her just as quickly.

"So fucking touchy."

For several moments they spar, until she lands a blow that has him seeing stars. Swaying on the spot, he makes a split-second decision to drop back down onto the floor and pretend she's knocked him unconscious. With slack features, he hears her stop and regain her composure, standing over him and no doubt assessing whether he still presents a formidable threat.

Evidently, she decides in the negative because her footsteps move away a moment later – moving in the direction of the man in the chair (he deliberately avoids asking himself why she doesn't take the opportunity his apparent stupor presents to kill him).

Killian strains his ears to hear, but he doesn't have to. Her cadence is as clear and cold as ice when she speaks to the man in a voice more menacing than anything he has ever heard.

"Where were we?" she purrs. He can just imagine her leaning down towards their mark.

"I've already _told_ you," he stammers frantically, "I don't –"

There's a harsh crack. She must have slapped him.

"_Please_, I have a _family_ -"

_Crack._

"I'm begging you - don't do this! I didn't do anythi -"

"We've gone through this. I know you're lying." She pauses, contemplative, and then says, "Even if I couldn't see through your shitty pokerface, I _saw _you there." He is silent, not even breathing, and Emma chuckles darkly, "Ah. I bet you didn't know that – did you?"

The man's tone changes dramatically, the desperate note gone from his inflection, "I know what you are, sweetheart. If you were there, it wasn't for a good reason." It almost sounds like he's taunting her, and something about that makes Killian's fists involuntarily clench. She doesn't snap though, unaffected as her footsteps ring out in the empty room. By the sounds of it, she's circling his chair.

"Maybe. But I don't hide behind a pretence of innocence and virtue. I don't pretend to help people and then _hurt them_," she snarls murderously.

Killian's brows furrow. He's never heard Emma so impassioned. Not that they've ever really sat down for tea to exchange their respective interests, but he's never really thought about her as anything other than a killer. And really, when your life's work is founded upon something as critical as death; it's difficult to contemplate the more trivial aspects of existence.

Passions, interests, like, dislikes – they all take a backseat.

Now though, he doesn't have to see her to know she's positively radiating with outrage over whatever this man did. Something in his mind shifts into position, a piece to her puzzle falling into place.

"Technically, _I_ didn't do anything," the man sneers. There's another crack, then the sound of someone spitting (most likely blood).

"But you let your henchmen do what they wanted, didn't you? They turned to you expecting to be reprimanded and you just fucking _laughed it off."_

"Why do you even care?" he grinds out, "Why does it matter to a killer-for-hire what I let my men do?"

The next crack is harder, hard enough to render him silent as she gnarls out her words in unmitigated fury (Killian is almost tempted to fear her in that moment, purely from the sound of her voice), "Those people were _innocent_! You told them you would protect them and then you let them suffer at the hands of your men because you thought it was _funny_ - because it didn't matter to you what happened to a bunch of men, women and children that were _below_ you! They did nothing to you but ask for help and you threw them at the mercy of your men like _meat to a bunch of rabid dogs!_"

By the time she reaches the last sentence, she is roaring at the top of her lungs so her voice echoes off the walls.

Killian actually flinches.

The target spits again, and repeats himself, "But why do you _care_?"

There's silence and he risks her wrath to open his eyes, watching as she stands to her full height, looking down at the man with a mask of sudden indifference.

"Because I've still got morals, you two-bit piece of shit. And there are people who needed to hear you admit to that."

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket and shows him the screen where a tape recorder is being happily displayed. The man sputters as she smiles.

Then she shoots him, twice in the stomach so he cries out. She glances once at Killian as she turns around and leaves – never stopping, even when she notices he's conscious and watching her. The man moans and begs for help when Killian stands up and starts to walk out.

All it does is instil a deeper sense of rage in him – it doesn't take an expert to piece together a general description of what this man did (or, more accurately, what he callously allowed to happen).

He aims his weapon and fires. Not in his head – in his knee. The man screams, and continues to scream as Killian exits, making sure to break the handle on his way out.

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_5. something else entirely: As much as he complains, Killian Jones enjoys the competition – why else would he help a fellow merc in their time of need?_

If there's one thing a mercenary likes to avoid on jobs – it's law enforcement. They, unsurprisingly, tend to condemn the profession under the pretence of ethics (or something equally pretentious like that). Personally, Killian believes they are all simply envious of the lucrative pay-packet. Unlike him, they cannot sideline their morals for the sake of pragmatism.

After all, isn't he just expediting a process that would take place with or without his aid? People kill each other all the time, it's nothing new. It's technically quite an archaic concept.

Unfortunately, they don't see it that way. As a result, oftentimes, part of eliminating a mark is dual parts attack and defence; especially in the case of political figures (those ones in particular are a _bitch_ to execute, but the pay tends to compensate graciously for the additional effort).

So, the singular most important thing a mercenary wants to avoid is getting caught by a nation's respective law enforcement agency.

Which is why he's currently leaping down a long winding stairwell three at a time, trying to reach the underground car park before they shut the building down completely. Alarms blaring in his ears, he still manages to make out the sound of officers thundering down the the steps that spiral above him.

Occasionally, a stray bullet will pierce the railing beside him so he sticks as close to the outer wall as possible.

He's just made it to the fourth floor when a door slams open in front of him and he has to skid to an abrupt halt just to avoid running into it. Whipping out his knife, he propels himself forward, kicking the door closed so the newcomer has to dart out and into his crosshairs to circumvent possible injury.

The newcomer is prepared though, shoving a foot into his knee before he can even aim his blade.

Gritting his teeth against the pain blossoming in his leg, he prepares to drive it through the person's chest – thankfully, he recognises her face before it can ever pierce her skin. Emma Swan, breathing heavily and clearly fresh from a fight if her bloodied brow is anything to base assumptions on, groans as she too takes him in.

"Hey beautiful, haven't seen you in a while."

She shoves him away so harshly he almost topples over the railing. A gunshot rings through the air, sparks flying as it hits the railing next to him and he flings himself away from the edge. However, Emma's already halfway down the next flight of stairs, heedless of his presence.

Above him, the shouting is getting louder (closer) and he curses, loping down after her.

They finally land on the bottom level, but they still need to cross through the hotel foyer before they can get to the underground level where the cars are parked. It seems this hotel had renovated the car garage after the initial building's erection since the stairwell isn't directly connected. An inconvenience, really.

She kicks open the door, he nudges her as it swings open – unapologetically forcing her to stumble aside as he tears past into the main lobby.

To his infinite lack of surprise, there are also officers crowding the wide, high-ceilinged room.

They shoot at him as he flies towards the elevator corridor, grazing several limbs but altogether arriving at his destination untouched. As he skids to a stop along the shiny ground, he punches the button and turns to see how Emma's faring, shit-eating grin already in place.

It disappears when he notices that she's stuck behind an elaborate, mahogany table across the opposite side of the room – unable to move with the showering of bullets currently whizzing past her makeshift cover.

The elevator doors open with a cheery ding and he stares at the empty little space beckoning him to safety.

He can leave right now, get down and get out while they're preoccupied with her. He can make a clean escape.

That, however, means she will most likely be arrested if not killed in the process. And based on what little he knows about Swan, he has a feeling she'd prefer the latter to the former. The mere thought of her being contained in a box has him shuddering in disapproval.

He owes her nothing.

They are rivals, vicious competitors in a highly dangerous sport. If anything, her death would serve to benefit him.

_She also shot you_; a bemused voice in the back of his head reminds him.

He grimaces as he remembers Victor extracting the bullet. Yet, that feeling of irritation doesn't even begin to swallow the deep-seated disgust that rises when he thinks about Emma being arrested. Loathe as he is to admit it, he enjoys the competition – it certainly makes things more interesting.

_Buggering fuck._

Killian turns on his heel. The elevator doors close.

He actively avoids over-analysing his actions.

Peeking around the corner, he notes the thick line of officers currently spraying bullets all over the lobby like confetti at a fucking Labour Day parade. Either they have terrible aim or they're _trying _to keep them pinned. He's more inclined to believe the latter since he knows, from personal experience, just how well they can usually aim.

His options are already limited, so when Killian spots a heavy gold mirror he pulls it roughly from its perch and scans the thick exterior. It's just big enough to shield him if he crouches and, based on the heavy metal backing, it should keep him somewhat safe. Or so he hopes.

Rolling his eyes at the utter absurdity of this decision, he bends his knees, positions the mirror and starts to move as quickly as he can across the floor towards her. The bullets thump against the surface at his right and he jolts when one snaps unnervingly close to his head.

When she catches sight of him, she glares and shouts, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Something about her hostility makes him alter his answer from the truth to, "The elevators aren't working. We'll need to find another way down."

He reaches her and discards the mirror (it was about to give out anyway).

Squeezing in beside her, he dismisses their proximity and focuses on the way she scowls like she knows he was just lying. She can't prove it though so she shakes her head and throws a look over the table, assessing their human barricade again.

"We can't go through the front entrance and circle around to the back."

"_Obviously_," he derides.

Emma's glower heats his face, he smirks in return. Then she looks over her should and when she looks at him again, there's a roguish grin fixed upon her typically dispassionate features. He follows her previous line of sight to where a long line of windows looks down onto a garden – from there, the garage is a five second walk.

"Bloody hell," he breathes, wordlessly agreeing to her plan of action.

The door to the stairwell bursts open just as she pivots on her heel and runs, the other officers streaming into the room as they dart towards the window as fast as they can. Somehow, they manage to reach the window which is precisely when he realises just how stupid this idea was.

Some of the neighbouring glass panes have already been broken from the gunfire but it's too late to alter his course so he slams his bodyweight against the smooth surface in front of him. It shatters, allowing him to dive through.

For a second he is weightless, wind and glass and gunfire rushing past him.

Then he bends his knees reflexively and lands with a heavy thump in the thick shrubbery. It cushions the majority of his impact surprisingly well, but he can feel a thousand tiny scratches all along his arms and face and neck.

"Have you got a car?" he wheezes, standing up, brushing himself off and jogging towards the garage entrance. She sidles up to him and nods, unable to vocalise an answer when she clearly bore the brunt of her fall. He notes the pained expression on her face and adopts a mask of faux haughtiness - if only to save face.

"Good," he tells her as they turn into the dark area, "Because I don't. Which one is yours?"

She doesn't argue (which tells him just how hard she fell), just points to a silver Honda civic and pulls her keys out. There's a little dried blood on the keys, inducing some suspicion on his part whether the car is _actually _hers. Time is of the essence, though, and he snatches the keys from her and sprints ahead, "I'll drive."

Again, no arguments. Though she does berate him for being liberal on the clutch as they finally make their way out of the garage and across town, ditching the civic and hiding in an abandoned motor shop until the authorities give up.

She gives him a curious look before she abandons him in search of a hotel.

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	6. Chapter 6

_6. losers weepers: They just keep running into each other._

His feet snap harshly against the linoleum floor as he sprints down the corridor, away from the flock of black-clad men chasing him. Skidding around a corner, he ignores the unmistakable burning of lactic acid in his legs and instead focuses on making his footfalls lighter as he puts some distance between him and his assailants. Their impassioned calls fade the longer he races through the maze-like passages until, breathless and boneless with exhaustion, he spots a supply closet.

If he keeps running, as he's been doing for the past hour, his legs will collapse under him and though endurance is a skill he's honed for decades; it's been a bloody long day. His decision made, he heads for the sweet salvation the isolated room offers. The way he figures it, he'll have enough time to string together some semblance of a plan while he catches his breath.

Killian jerks the door open and pulls it closed behind him in one fluid movement, sagging against it and exhaling heavily.

His respite lasts about a second as there is a distinctly feminine groan of disapproval – one he recognises well. Eyes still closed, he smirks.

He opens them to see Emma Swan, arms folded as she takes him in with tangible exasperation.

"Oh, come _on_," she moans, stamping her foot in a petulant show of frustration (he cannot withhold the amused smirk that materialises on his face when she does that), "Now I _know_ you're just following me."

Cocking an eyebrow, Killian pulls himself up from the door so he can face her directly, "Don't flatter yourself, love. I'm here for the same reason you are." She narrows her eyes, adopting a firm stance with her hands on her hips and her chin tilted up. Though he has almost a foot of height on her, she clearly knows how to emanate authority. A lesser man would be intimidated (he, on the other hand, only finds it endearing).

"Cynthia Parkwell?"

He gives her a curt nod, "That'd be the one."

Emma rolls her eyes and concedes, "Alright. That explains why you're here but not why you're _here_." She gestures to the small, dank room they're standing in with a cursory hand.

"I'm here because I was being chased by Parkwell's guards," he explains, wincing when he takes a particularly deep breath. By the feel of it, he's cracked some ribs – and he must have a wicked bruise on his cheek because her eyes keep dancing over his face. Occasionally, they linger on his lips but that's more likely to be because he split it when he was sparring with one of the guards earlier.

Looking up at him through her eyelashes, she exudes condescension when she coos, "Didn't think you could hack it?"

Flashes of his earlier fight blaze past his mind's eye in a blur of blood and bruises; Miss Parkwell is clearly very adept at selecting her guards. The men and women he fought were good (very good, actually). Just not as good as him (obviously).

Killian's face deadpans, unamused.

"I've got an idea - why don't _you_ go out and brawl them while I take out Parkwell?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and moving to step around him, "Fuck off. I got here first."

Nimble fingers securing purchase on her elbow, he drags her back around – much to her disdain. The glare she levels him with warns violent things if he doesn't remove his hand, so he does but he crowds her space to keep her from manoeuvring past.

"This isn't elementary school, Swan. You can't call dibs under the premise of finders keepers."

"Watch me," she grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes and it drops the second she moves. Again, she fails to slip past him as he wrenches her back around to face him.

"Oh, _no_ you don't," he manages as he reinforces his grip on her. This time, however, she struggles against his grasp. Whirring them both around, he has to restrain her bodily against one of the cold cement walls to keep her still. Holding her there, he watches with faint humour as the scorn evaporates from her face to leave thinly veiled outrage.

Emma's smile is razor-sharp, her tone gently derisive, "Let me go. I'd hate to damage that pretty face."

"You think I'm pretty?" he bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly but otherwise maintains eye contact.

"_You_ think you're pretty."

"Well," he shrugs, regretting it immediately because she expands on the opportunity the gesture provides, evading his swipes until they're standing a foot apart again, "You're not _wrong_." Emma rolls her eyes (one day they're going to roll right out of her head, he swears) and pivots unceremoniously on her heel, yanking open the door. It's only when she's halfway out of the room that he realises where she's going.

"Ass hole," she spits over her shoulder as she runs out of the room.

Needless to say, he chases after her.

And of course they don't make it very far before they come to a halt. In fact, they make it about five feet outside the heavy grey door when they both curse.

"Bugger."

"Shit."

As soon as they exit the supply room, over a dozen men in protective black gear appear around the corner at the end of the pristine hall. A short second passes where they are both held immobile in shock, and the cluster of black at the end of the hall is stationary. Then, without further preamble, the wall of black vests and helmets is moving towards them, raising their guns high and aiming.

"Go left," Emma orders, already tearing in that direction. The closet is located on the flat of a T intersection so he glances once in the opposite direction, contemplating splitting off for a mere moment before doing what she said.

"Why?" Killian asks suspiciously, even as he moves after her. It could be a trap; after all, it would actually benefit her to have him dead. The same way her demise would undoubtedly benefit him (she's actually become quite a nuisance lately – stealing his kills, and therefore his money).

(_You should have thought about that before you kept her alive the last time_, a voice whispers in his head.)

"Just trust me," she responds in a frustrated growl, "Come on!"

As they reach the end of the stretch of linoleum, they both turn. It's a dead end. He whips around to face her, condescending glare fixed in place. But, for some unexplainable reason, she's picking the lock on the door beside them. Though she glances occasionally over her shoulder, she is – for all intents and purposes – exposed.

The guards are still marching down towards them and he groans out some long-suffering sound, retrieving his gun and manoeuvring to cover her as she works on the lock. He takes down four men before there's a satisfying click behind him and he instinctively backs into the room after her.

He's just moved into the almost identical supply closet when she sticks her head out once. Whatever she sees pleases her because then she's spinning back into the room with an arrogant simper, plastering herself against one of the walls.

"Brace yourself."

"Wha-"

A thunderous clap echoes through the room, the distinct sound of cement cracking and penetrating the air just before he hears several cries of mixed surprise and pain. It shakes the entire building with a violent rumble and he has to shove himself against the wall, right beside Emma, to keep from toppling to his knees. Even then, he stumbles, losing his sense of equilibrium as the corridor outside seems to shatter. Displaced ash and dust filters into the room as the building groans and he gives the blonde beside him a sidelong glance.

"How did you know that corridor was going to explode?" he asks breathlessly, even though he really already knows the answer.

Her answering grin is undeniably smug. She holds up a small black devise with a silver switch, "Because I rigged them."

"_Oh_," is all he can muster as she takes a steadying breath. He can't deny he is impressed by her gall, if unsurprised.

"You're welcome."

She pushes up from the wall, cracks her gun, and saunters past him with a derisive leer - her eyes stay on his. Then she's gone and out the door and he has to rattle himself to remember what he's doing, what he's there for. It's a valuable waste of time too because by the time he _does_ eventually reach Miss Parkwell, she is slumped lifelessly over her desk and Swan is already perched on the window sill, saluting him once before dropping out of sight.

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I've had a couple of queries about whether we'll be getting any snapshots from Emma's perspective - at the moment, everything I've written has been from Killian's perspective but if I get a lightning rod of inspo for a piece from her POV I'm open to it (though I do kind of like the idea that you never _really _know what's going on in her head quite like you do Killian's)**

**Oh, and this was prompted by anon on tumblr: one day they bump into each other in a very mundane place, like a coffee shop and neither of them wants to believe the other that they are actually JUST having coffee and not here to murder someone?**

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><p><em>7. your imperfections are quaint: Even mercenaries need a morning coffee sometimes.<em>

There are approximately three places in his life that he does not associate to his job: his first home in Dublin, his brother's old apartment in London, and a coffee shop in the heart of New York called '_Fairytale Refreshments_.' It's a small thing, a secluded establishment nestled into a thick brick edifice in the South end of the city. With flaking leather seats and low-hanging lights that flicker occasionally whenever the building is jostled by the nearby train tracks, it exudes an air of homeliness he has yet to imitate anywhere else.

Something about it just feels untouchable, like entering a bubble of seclusion where the outside world doesn't exist and he's just another person stocking up on caffeine in the city that never sleeps. He likes that about New York.

That it's just as restless as he is.

And that he can get lost in it, fall into anonymity amidst the sea of faces. No one there recognises him, no one there knows what he does or who he is. It's nice to be just another ass hole.

So imagine his surprise when, as he waits in line for his long overdue coffee, he hears the small bell on the entrance ring - only to reveal a familiar face. A piece of him brightens at her unexpected appearance (_why does that even happen? She's a bloody menace and he detests her_), while another piece just groans in exasperation.

This is _his _place.

This is _his _escape.

And now he can't even evade _her_, nor the temporary trivial life he desires that her presence belies. The coffee house feels inexplicably tainted; whether for good or bad, he hasn't quite decided yet. That part still lies in the balance.

_Why God? Why?_

_What did he ever do to deserve this?_

Their eyes lock and her expression deadpans before she strides towards him, unwrapping her knitted scarf the entire time.

"No. You are not allowed here," Emma tells him petulantly, making him smirk with traceable scorn.

"Excuse me?"

He folds his arms across his chest, tilts his head and shits his weight - all in a derisive speculation that clearly makes her blood boil.

"You heard me - this is _my _place. Stop stalking me and find your own," she snaps, pointing to the door. The other patrons in the room are giving them strange looks and he rolls his eyes, stepping closer to the counter when one of the customers is served. She follows him, of course, stomping alongside him and glaring all the while at his apparent _audacity _to impede on her special spot.

"Actually, darling, I'm fairly certain you're the one who should leave. I've been coming here for three years now and I'm not about to sacrifice that just because we happened to bump into each other," he tells her.

Emma frowns, "You've been coming here for _three_ years?"

He nods and she shakes her head doubtfully, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"That's not possible. I've been coming here for ages too - we should have run into each other long before now."

"Or maybe," he says, leaning closer to her with a leer, "you're lying and you wanted to find another excuse to see me."

_That _tickles her temper and she huffs angrily as he finally reaches the counter. The attendant greets him warmly, familiarly, and then turns to Emma who he also apparently recognises. He points between them, but they are still staring at each other - a glaring match, really.

"Wait, you two know each other?" the waiter inquires.

"Yes," Killian says at the same time Emma snaps.

"_No_."

The man behind the cashier looks confused as ever but shakes it off enough to ask tentatively, "Do you guys just want your usuals?"

Both nod sharply, still caught in each other's irate gaze.

"Why do you have to ruin everything?" she hisses as he pays for the drinks and she snatches the receipt, leading him to where they wait for their respective beverages.

"I ruined nothing, you're the one who ruined it," he retorts, a childish sort of irritation banding them together.

"I hate you," she spits, and when a woman in a nearby booth shoots a disapproving look over her shoulder at them, she rolls her eyes and tells the lady, "Mind your own damn business, soccer mom." With a huff, the reproachful woman turns back to her coffee and Killian lifts a speculative eyebrow.

"So unnecessarily harsh."

"Shut up."

"As you wish."

They wait together in silence as their drinks are prepared, the only sound that of the muted buzzing conversation around them and the occasionally whirring of the machines letting off steam and dispensing scalding hot liquid. Leaning side-by-side against the wall, he spares the occasional glance in her direction.

She is a mirror image of him - arms folded, eyes fixed forward, face neutral despite the barely concealed annoyance simmering to life.

A twinge of guilt gnaws at his gut and he sighs.

"I'll find another place," he growls, just as their orders are called and he strides up to where the barista is holding both cups. He takes the first one he sees and turns to her as she takes hers.

She's watching him carefully, "Sorry?"

Killian shakes his head and looks over her shoulder, "You can have this place. I'll find another spot." He turns around and starts to forge a path for the door but she calls him back. Walking slowly across the room, she doesn't meet his eyes and she definitely chews the inside of her mouth as she shrugs.

"You don't have to find another place. I guess we can… _share_," she says it like it's a dirty word and he tilts his head down to regard her dubiously, until she adds, quickly, "I mean, I already steal all your kills. It wouldn't be fair to steal this place too."

He scoffs, she gives him a shit-eating grin and they both move to a booth in the back corner. There, he takes a sip of his takeaway cup at the same time she tips hers back.

They both come up spluttering, eye scrunched in equal measures of disgust and shock.

"What the bloody hell is this?"

"What is this shit?"

They both pause, their eyes lock, and without a word they swap cups.

It's another minute before she shakes her head at him.

"No offence, but that shit was so sickeningly sweet, I'm pretty sure you're going to get diabetes like all the other hipsters who drink that crap."

"Yeah?" he says defensively, gulping happily on his Chai latte, "Well yours is dark, dry, and bitter. Like _you_."

Emma glares into her cup to hide her snicker.

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><p><strong>Pretty please review?<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**You are all awesome. **

**prompt: killian get's jealous over emma seducing a target (I actually got another one but the situation was vice versa - don't worry anon, I've written your prompt too but it's later because her getting jealous fit in much later so yeah)**

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><p><em>8. little jade monsters: He's not jealous. He's <em>not.

There is something to be said for the evolution and development of warfare. At least, Killian can appreciate the aesthetic advancements over the past decade, especially when it makes his job infinitely simpler. Then again, even with long-range weapon systems, there's still the inexplicable issue of getting them into position where they won't be disturbed or unintentionally detonated. He doesn't often use explosives (partially because they're far too expensive to use on a regular basis and partially because he feels less pretentious getting his hands dirty), but this is one occasion where a bomb is both necessary and efficient.

By the time he reaches his vantage point, far away from the expected radius of the explosion, covered in sweat because running in this heat should be a crime, he is ready to collapse into a nice hotel bed, drink himself stupid, and sleep for at least two days. Although, that may be because the Korean ambassador's nephew, Jon, has a security guard that does not endorse explosive devices (surprise, surprise).

The hulking man watching his car was an absolute bitch to take down.

Now though, hidden safely away from the little bastard's convoy, he waits for the signal to set him alight.

Of course, Emma chooses that precise moment to hack into his comms.

"Jones, I'm thinking of going to dinner – what are some nice restaurants in your area?"

The taunting cadence of her voice sets him off, and he frowns suspiciously at the detonation device still flashing provocatively in his hand. The button yearns to be pressed, but he has to wait until he gets the call from Jefferson. She hums as she waits for his response. He can almost _see_ her loitering aimlessly around whatever room she currently inhabits. But she never calls him without a purpose; Emma simply isn't the type to make a social call.

Something about the situation smells off and he narrows his eyes.

"This isn't your convoluted way of asking me out to dinner, is it Swan?" he asks, scanning the surrounding buildings for any traces of her and coming up empty.

"In your dreams," she scoffs, "I've actually got a date tonight."

The sudden burning in his belly is nothing – it's definitely _not_ jealousy. His fists _do not_ clench involuntarily. His teeth most definitely _do_ _not _grind together at the thought of some other imbecile spending the evening with the undefinable enigma that is Emma Swan, being caught completely unawares by the treasure that's just happened to topple into his miserable lap.

Nope.

Not_ at all._

Killian Jones doesn't _do_ jealousy.

Certainly not for nuisances like Emma Swan.

"Poor bloke," he retorts through clenched teeth.

"Don't be jealous."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Emma sighs exaggeratedly and he hears a dull thud in the background, can imagine her flopping unceremoniously onto a bed.

"Actually, it's a rather important date," she says, the smirk obvious in her voice, "I mean, it's not every day you get a date with the Korean ambassador's nephew." The realisation drops over him like an anvil, resounding in his ears like a claxon, leaving him dumbfounded for several seconds. Then she keeps talking, a mocking victory woven into each syllable as she gloats, "He's actually picking me up first with his private convoy."

He actually snarls.

"I would send my condolences but I'm going to make sure he's dead long before you can traumatise him, sweetheart."

He's already storming down the stairs, sprinting towards a random car and jumping in to hot-wire it. In his ear, he hears her smug snickering and his foot falls flat against the ignition, propelling him forward with a precipitous jolt.

"It's cute that you think you'll have a shot."

"I still have a bomb," he retorts. Her lack of surprise would be unsettling if he didn't know she's probably had eyes on the bastard this entire time as well. His fingers are tight around the wheel, weaving in and out of traffic with decades of well-honed finesse.

"Yeah, I know," she tells him dismissively. The sound of a person knocking on her door filters through the headpiece and she stages a fake gasp (he can just see her animated expression, hand to her throat as she acts like she actually cares about this tryst). In hushed tones she warns him, "Good luck, Jones. You'll need it."

The line is silent again and he curses profusely.

Emma fucking Swan.

8888

Jefferson tracks her location easily – he watches the monitor on his screen, her little red dot making it abundantly clear that she is riding in the same car that has his recently purchased arms attached to its underside. And it's probably a bad decision but he does it anyway: he has Jefferson hack the line to her comms so she can hear him. Conversely, it also means he can hear her.

So he definitely catches the familiar smack of lips, something hot lodging in his throat when the carnal sound is interspersed by a very husky, very _feminine_ (very exaggerated, he notes belligerently)moan.

If he runs a red light or two on his journey towards them, it's hardly his fault.

"You are incredibly beautiful," Jon mutters breathlessly.

"You are incredibly stupid," Killian echoes in her ear.

She laughs – at whom, he cannot be sure.

"You're too sweet," she sing-songs in that fake affectionate tenor she reserves for these unfortunate fools.

He's heard her use it before, on men and women. Somehow, it always works. Only god knows how they don't see right through it.

Then again, depending on what she's wearing, their focus isn't always securely on what she's saying so much as how she's moving. It's a dangerous mistake they all make.

8888

When the _delightful_ couple arrive at the restaurant, the car is parked in an underground garage. He hears Jon's immodest narrations, leading her through _his_ restaurant's back entrance as he boasts until the background chatter grows and they are indubitably in the middle of the establishment. Killian pulls his car to a stop three blocks from the building, relishing in the screech of the tyres as he jerks it to a halt and jumps from the car.

Walking at a brisk pace, he heads for the restaurant.

"I see you hacked my line again," she says, and sighs, "I'll have to get Ruby to fix that."

She must be alone, her partner for the evening having left to take care of some business or another. Otherwise she wouldn't be speaking in the dulcet tones she reserves for their distinctive banter. Her next words confirm his suspicions.

"You know, while I appreciate your effort, I think using a bomb to take this moron out was a bit excessive," she comments with just the barest hint of reproach.

"You're right. _I _should have tried to get him on a date," he retorts, earning him a snort of amusement. For someone who is supposed to be incensed, he still cracks a smile at the jovial sound that wafts through the speaker in his ear. It's not often that Emma Swan smiles, let alone laughs.

"_Please_," she recovers quickly, all taunting vowels and knife-edge consonants, "There are a million other ways you could have done this one. I think you're just getting sloppy, Jones."

"Careful, Swan, I can press a button and blow your ass sky high anytime I want," he warns (an empty threat and they both know it). Especially since he's only one-hundred metres away now, so pressing the button would be rather counterproductive (suicide) at this stage (not that she knows that).

Suddenly, he has to question why he even brought the device; it's not as though it serves any alternative purpose. But then, he supposes he was somewhat _distracted_ when he exited the car.

Emma draws his attention back to their conversation, clicking her tongue in faux reprimand.

"All talk, no walk. Does it ever get tedious?"

"I don't know, you tell me when I burn the building down with you still in it."

"Go for it."

Thankfully, he's just reached the threshold of the restaurant. Sliding in, he moves away from the front door quickly. On his way across the small expanse of space separating the entrance from the corridors on either side, he catches a glimpse of her; sitting across from that worthless cad of a mark who has just so happens to have returned.

He tries not to analyse his antagonism towards this particular case, focusing instead on altering his plans, adjusting his approach to account for the changes she so callously forced him to make.

She's smiling at Jon – it's utterly fake, mind you. The grin doesn't nearly reach her eyes.

But she still looks beautiful…

…For a meddling hellion with a tendency to influence his income.

Disappearing around a corner, he manages to trail a waiter and – once the man has his attention sufficiently occupied, he renders him temporarily unconscious. As he strips the man of his uniform, he listens to Jon through the device in his ear, apologising profusely for the unanticipated interruption and commenting on the rudeness of some people. Killian rolls his eyes at that, roughly tugging on the goofy looking waistcoat.

8888

The look on her face is priceless. Mouth agape as she drinks in his image, standing at their table with a pen and pad, silently preening like a peacock.

When he meets her gaze, he sees the infinitesimal shake of her head.

_Game on_.

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><p><strong>I don't think you fully understand how much motivation to write I source from reviews?<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**So, I did not expect everyone to want to know what happened to our good pal Jon after the last little drabble (I was doing that pretentious thing where you leave it up to the readers) _but _since I have had an inundation of lovely people wanting to know what happened: you _will_ find out. _Eventually_. Just not right now.**

**Side note: I've got to say. This is one of my favourite tidbits so far.**

**prompt: sexual tension (kudos anon)**

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><p><em>9. give me all you've got: Emma Swan is stealing his kills and he's had just about enough of it. <em>

If she didn't aggravate him so much, he might find her somewhat endearing.

But this is not the first time she has stolen his kill and, by extension, his money. In fact, this is the fifth time in three months (not that anyone's counting).

A small voice chides him, tells him he's just bitter because he used to be the best in this macabre game of death. They called him Hook; deadly, sleek, sharp, and near impossible to catch in the murky waters they play in. _And_ a rumour was once spread that he'd taken out a man with a single, well-aimed right hook. Which is completely false, but he wasn't about to deny the notoriety the latent nickname provided nor the subsequent job offers it triggered.

Lord knows his handler, Robert Gold, had been more than pleased by the influx of work.

Now though, now _she_ is the grim reaper. She is not just _in_ his league; she's starting to _beat_ him at his own bloody game.

And she's being a right bitch about it.

Especially since this is the fifth occasion where she's pilfered the lucrative payday from right under his nose without so much as a warning. His lip curls as he thinks about every damn resource she just flushed down the toilet. The senator was alone because _Killian_ had organised it. The senator's guards were preoccupied because _Killian_ had constructed it that way. The senator was unarmed and unprotected because _Killian_ had decreed it so.

But _who_ had taken the kill shot?

_Emma fucking Swan_.

And _who_ had the nerve to send him a text gloating over the kill? His phone feels hot in his hand, clenched tight enough that he's certain it will crumble under his cement grip at any given moment. Thankfully the device is sturdy enough to withstand his piqued ministrations - it is still in one piece even after he throws the damn thing at the wall in his frustration.

(He knew purchasing a Nokia would pay off.)

(Even if it has been a great source of amusement for Swan for _months._)

(The belligerent prig has been informing him on a regular basis just how archaic the technology is - he has always defended it as _sturdy_.)

Killian shakes off the memories as the agitation seizing him rips through his veins like a spectre.

It's the last goddamn straw.

He finds her easily, has Jefferson hack the GPS signal on her phone the second she pulls the trigger and traces her movements from there. So it doesn't surprise him when, taken a little off guard (_a lot _off guard – they've never actively sought each other out before), she tries to incapacitate him as soon as he marches through the door of her hotel room.

A messy scuffle ensues, until he has her pinned against a wall (though she may excel in hand to hand combat, he is still physically stronger and fuelled by vexation). Upon seeing his face, she relaxes - she doesn't view him as a threat. Not with the abundance of chances he's had to kill her in the last six months.

Before she can speak, he growls, "That wasn't very nice what you did today."

Her smirk only goads him and his grip tightens on her wrists, chest crushing her mercilessly against the wall, "Didn't your nonexistent mother ever teach you it's wrong to steal?"

Emma quirks an eyebrow, the thinly-veiled jab rolling right off her shoulders in the shadow of the satisfaction his reaction is so obviously presenting her with.

"How is it stealing when someone practically _offers_ you something?"

He leans forward so their noses brush, his teeth bared.

"You stole my mark."

"I seized an opportunity."

Just then, she uses her body weight and some incomprehensibly complex move to knock him away. He stumbles back and attempts to recapture her. But she is like smoke, slipping through his fingers and choking him in the process, winding him with a harsh blow.

"You don't strike me as an opportunist," he grunts, avoiding a swipe and retaliating by kicking her in the back of the knee so she stumbles, "You're more of a pirate."

"Takes one to know one," she spits, knocking his feet from under him with a low roundhouse.

Several minutes pass like that; lunging, rolling, pulling, pushing - they rip through the room like a tornado. Distantly, he feels satisfied by the mayhem they leave in their wake. Lamps overturned, frames askew or altogether smashed, side tables cleared so that a perimeter of small goods lines the carpet.

Eventually, he is forced to resort to brute strength, swinging her over his shoulders and slamming her into the carpet floor. He leaves no time to let her recover from the no doubt winding move, straddling her hips and locking her arms either side of her. An unwise man would soften the blow, fear for her safety as a delicate young thing, fall prey to the muted look of discomfort on her face when they are finally immobile. But he isn't stupid enough to underestimate her capabilities (he's seen her take down men twice her size with half the effort). He leans close so she cannot interlock her legs around his neck and pull him back - putting them in dangerously close proximity.

Her breath comes out against his lips in short, sharp pants. It shoots warmth straight to his groin to have her wriggling beneath him, searching for an out. They both know it's fruitless, but the only thing in this room bigger than his current level of aggravation is her pride.

Stubborn as an Ox, she is. Perhaps that's why he likes her so much.

Glaring up at him, her lips twitch back in a snarl, "Why are you even here? What do you want? The _money_?"

"I've got enough money."

"Then what the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"I came here," he murmurs, letting his head drop forward so that his lips brush her ear lobe, "to _warn_ you."

Her breath hitches, his chest tightens.

"_Warn_ me?"

"That if you keep stealing from me, I'm going to take. You. _Out_." He enunciates clearly, biting off each word in a way that sounds suggestive even to his own ears. He doesn't mean for it to come out like an innuendo, but his mouth has a way of unwittingly curling out sounds just this side of debaucherous.

For her part, she doesn't recoil.

That alone has the power to render him speechless. Thankfully, his face is still buried in the space above her shoulder so she doesn't see his stupefied reaction. He schools it before she can notice.

"Is that a threat?" she practically purrs, holding his gaze when he eventually pulls back just enough to safely side-eye her.

Killian grins, a dark menacing thing meant for moon-drenched alleys and shadow-shrouded offices.

"Perhaps it is."

Emma smirks lasciviously.

"You and I both know you'd never kill me."

And maybe she's right. Maybe his heart lurches at the simple idea of her demise. Maybe (through some miracle) he's grown fond of this uncontainable enigma of a woman. Maybe he kind of likes having her around (only kind of).

She doesn't need to know that though.

The space between them is diminishing. She isn't avoiding him and she certainly isn't turning away. His lips brush hers when he whispers.

"_Try me_."

Their eyes lock, the intensity crackling loudly between them. He has an overwhelming urge to kiss her, his fingers _itching_ to travel down her arms to her waist, skim lazily down her lower back, slide under the tank top she's wearing and press into the smooth skin that awaits. His self-control is a fragile thing and it's waning horrendously at this moment.

Which is precisely why he needs to get away from her.

Now.

_Right now._

Before he does something incomprehensibly stupid.

(Like kiss her.)

The tension cracks like a whip as he abruptly jerks away, disentangling himself and sweeping out of the room before he acts on the heat thrumming in his blood. He moves from the room so swiftly, he doesn't see her heavy exhale or expression of muted disappointment and confusion. It's a blessing in disguise though. He really _doesn't _need anymore motivation when it comes to her.

He's playing with fire, he knows it. But for her, he will happily burn.

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><p><strong>Review in the hopes of that sexual tension spilling over?<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**To those of you clambering for a hasty fuck: patience is a virtue. And really, did you think you would get off that easily?**

**(Plus, I'm a glutton for punishment - which translates to more sexual tension) **

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><p><em>10. all's fair in death and war: Killian is a firm believer in recompense, stealing her mark only seems fair.<em>

"I hate you."

He is lounging in an armchair, crystal tumbler balanced carefully between nimble fingers, when she sweeps into the room unannounced, the fury practically radiating off of her in waves of unmitigated heat. But then, he expected her to seek him out from the second he plunged his knife into the ambassador's plump chest. Even if he hadn't heard her profuse swearing through his comms, he would have just _known. _Emma Swan is possessive at best, and when it comes to kills that she's been working on for days: she's practically obsessive.

"I hate you so much," she repeats acrimoniously.

If he grins victoriously at the knife-edge of her vowels, it's completely out of his control.

"You son of a bitch," she snarls, "You motherfucking _cheat_ –"

Emma slaps the glass out of his hand in her rampage so it smashes against the floor, glass debris scattering across the wooden panels. With her free hand she reaches roughly for his head – he stops her before she can make contact. She responds by trying to attack him with her other arm. He deflects. It continues like that for some time, brawling, moves and countermoves, until they are a tangled mess of limbs sitting in the too small armchair, hopelessly intertwined, in closer proximity than they have been since he last threatened her.

At least this time, they haven't done any serious damage to the room.

She is straddled atop him, and he can't say he despairs at the welcome feeling of her hips flush with his. Even the glare fixed upon her face is indubitably appealing. He has always had a thing for fire, and this woman is a goddamn inferno.

"Turnabout's fair play, love," he simpers, glancing at her mouth, licking his lips like a cat who caught the mouse.

"The pay on that job was _very_ different and you barely had to make a fucking effort on the senator –"

"Please refrain from swearing so much. It's really not becoming on a pillar of morality and feminine fragility such as yourself."

He says it deliberately – to rile her up.

He succeeds.

Rage glitters in her eyes, wordlessly vowing redemption for his commentary. It promises him a world of agonising pain. He thinks maybe he's a masochist because he's eager for her to deliver on the silent threat.

"Fuck you," Emma growls.

Killian leans even closer to her face, using his grip on her back to pull them closer together so her chest aligns perfectly with his, unintentionally rocking their hips together.

"You know you're always welcome to."

Her eyes flit down to his lips for the shortest of seconds, jaw dropping in barely concealed stupor before she scowls vehemently. Probably in an effort to disguise her momentary lack in judgement. Triumph blooms pleasantly in his chest.

"You're disgusting," she spits.

He flourishes his hand, "And yet, here you are."

Bracing two hands on his chest, she wrenches herself violently away from him and stands up. Hands balanced on her hips, eyes bearing down on him, mouth twisted in anger; she _should_ be intimidating. The thinly veiled awe in his features is clearly not the reaction she is looking for because she kicks out the dainty leg of the armchair so he stumbles forward off it, landing on his knees in front of her.

Yet again, he can't find it in himself to be angry.

Kneeling before her is merely a far better vantage point from which to observe her. And yes, there is a spot reserved in hell for him and his lecherous mind. But really, he thinks, could anyone blame him for staring when she's standing there with the ceiling light haloing her head like an avenging angel?

She glowers and shakes her head.

"I put a lot of thought into this one, ass hole."

Killian chuckles, "I'm sure you did, love, but I don't give a damn."

Emma narrows her eyes and moves to kick him in the stomach. It's a rookie move, a testament to her vexation, and one he catches easily, holding her leg and twisting so she tumbles down in front of him. As she lands with a thump, only one thought dredges itself out of the depths of his swamp of a mind: _if looks could kill_.

So of course she physicalizes it, grabbing a piece of the broken glass to her right and lunging at him.

It is a move reminiscent to the one she used on that Korean twit, Jon, when everything had gone to shit. They'd spent the entire bloody evening sabotaging each other's subtle attempts to kill the bastard: he spilled the glass of wine containing her poison, she convinced Jon _not _to eat the cyanide-laced salad Killian had served up.

In the end, she had practically dragged Jon out onto the roof under the guise of wanting to see the view. Naturally, Killian had followed and a three-way fight had ensued (after he dispatched of the guards).

Emma wanted to kill Jon. Jon wanted to escape. Killian wanted to stop Emma from killing Jon so he could kill the stout man himself. In retrospect, it was a hilarious sight to have beheld: two assassins shoving each other out of the way like petulant toddlers in the sandbox as they each scrambled to end the miserable sod's life. In reality, it probably looked quite intense. But for two people who were well acquainted with the ways of hand-to-hand combat, it was child's play.

In the end, she'd managed to stick him with a broken glass bottle before Killian could kick her legs out from beneath her. And he'd pretty much _wasted _a perfectly functional explosive device.

He is brought back to the present when, in his distraction, Emma shallowly cuts his hand but otherwise misses its mark. He dodges her subsequent swipe just barely and tuts at her.

Securing her arm, he presses two fingers to the hollow of her throat and pushes, forcing her back.

He's always firmly believed she has an unfair advantage with those long lean limbs, something that occurs to him yet again as she enlists those pesky legs of hers. He drops to the floor like a leaden weight, his sense of equilibrium vanishing so swiftly that his head misses the pile of broken glass by a slender inch. Throwing away her makeshift weapon, she scrambles on top of him.

There's a definitively satisfying edge to the sensation of her weight pinning him down.

Especially when they're both still breathing heavily and her eyes are burning with an untampered ferocity he's come to admire.

Emma tilts closer, "You're a prick."

He leans up as much as he can so his nose nudges at hers, "And you're a bitch. We're just _meant_ to be."

Again, her eyes dart to his lips for a split second and he thinks she might kiss him the longer they linger there. Except she doesn't, she meets his gaze, daggers him with it, and pulls up. Kicking him once in the side (_lightly_ compared to her usual dealings – he's seen her break bones with those damned boots), she strides from the room in a whirlwind, leaving him a heaving and wheezing mess on the floor.

Even through the pain blossoming in his ribs, he feels no regret. Or animosity for that matter.

In their line of work, violence isn't exactly uncommon. Nor is it a symbol of hatred, just business. They deal in blood and sweat and broken bones. It's a socially acceptable currency of sorts.

If anything, beating each other up is a sign of affection and trust. Because she's clearly not afraid he'll feel personally victimised over the fact that she lunged at him with a jagged strip of broken glass. Just as she doesn't take it to heart when he (rarely) manages to kick her ass.

They've got a good thing going.

(All good things must come to an end.)

(He's too busy thinking about the way his skin is still tingling to ponder that.)

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><p><strong>Review in the hopes of that sexual tension spilling over?<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Happy Valentine's Day!**

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><p><em>11. never deal with the devil: Killian breaks the golden rule.<em>

It is, to say the least, an absolute shitstorm.

He's not even in the goddamn thick of it but he can see that her skin is coated in a thick mixture of blood and sweat and ash, debris caught in her gold hair. Her eyes are bloodshot, no doubt stinging with the dirt and dust that hangs in the air. Prague is usually nice this time of year, but trying to kill someone can bring out the worst in a country. Especially when that person possesses enough to wealth to hire out a whole convoy for travelling purposes.

Crouched behind an SUV with blown out tyres, Emma visibly swallows and pivots on her foot, rising up from the makeshift shelter and unloading a packet of bullets. With no shortage of pride, he watches several men fall as a result. The target, unfortunately for her, is not among those bodies now strewn across the road. That man is tucked comfortably away behind his paid protection.

Even Killian, from his vantage point several hundred feet away, cannot get a clean shot just yet.

As clear as day, he hears her curse.

Jefferson must have finally hacked her comms. The soundtrack where she stands is thunderous and grossly out of time, the clicking of ammo packets coming several seconds after she has reloaded her gun only to empty it in another collection of men. It should put him off, to hear the cacophony of her world while he's trying to line up his crosshairs with the precision of a needle and thread. But it doesn't; he's trained for these situations. He's actually trained for much more difficult scenarios.

"Emma," he tests as she crouches behind the car again.

In his crosshairs, he sees her jolt at the sound of his voice.

"Did you hack my comms again?" she demands irately, still reloading with all the efficiency of a well-trained soldier.

"_Obviously_," he says, perusing her general vicinity as he answers, "You're ridiculously outmanned down there, love, stop wasting your ammo."

Emma rolls her eyes (she does that a lot in his company) and shakes her head, "So what's your suggestion?"

"Stay down."

"So you can take the kill?" She barks a mirthless laugh, "I think I'll pass."

A heavy sigh, and then he's aiming for the guards closest to her.

"You're going to get yourself killed," he mutters under his breath. His bullets hit their mark and he smirks, satisfied. The blood pumps and hums happily in his veins at the reverberation of the gun beneath his deft fingers as it fires once, twice, three times, rumbling and jolting through his entire body. Returning his attention to their target, he grins when he sees that the guards have dispersed enough to provide a rapidly closing window of opportunity.

"And this one is mine anyway."

In his mind's eye, he can just see the way her gaze widens in realisation as she growls, "Don't you fucking dare. I set this bitch up -"

There's a resounding boom across the deserted street, and then the target drops in a lifeless heap, a bullet lodged in his brain. Killian instantly pulls his sights back around to where Emma stands behind her vehicle.

Her gun bounces off the ground when she throws it in frustration, glaring in his general direction.

"Lucky shot," she hisses, striding across to the SUV that still works and wrenching open the door. The snicker that escapes his mouth is completely unintentional and she glares murderously to no one in particular (he knows it's directed at him). Lifting her middle finger in the air (_all for him_) she rips the comms from her ear and stuffs them in her pocket.

It only makes him grin wider.

Her petulance always has a way of warming something inside of him.

His amusement evaporates as she leans into the still-operational vehicle, head ducking behind the wheel as she tries to hot-wire it. Compromised and unaware, her back is completely exposed to the stumbling bodyguard approaching her from behind, handgun clutched desperately in one blood soaked hand.

He cannot warn her, the comms are resting comfortably in her pocket. And she's too consumed by her aggravation to pick up on the silent footsteps of her impending aggressor.

Killian buries a round in the injured bodyguard before he can even lift the weapon in her direction. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't think about it – just moves with the unerring swiftness of a jungle cat as he takes down her threat. It is different to the time at the hotel when he chose not to abandon her. In that lobby, all that time ago, she still had at least a semblance of a chance: this time her death would have been all but certain.

Not only that, but this time she will know without a doubt that he saved her.

The thick gunshot that rings out is enough to make Emma snap out of the front seat and whip around.

When she turns, she is met with the sight of her would-be attacker falling in a lifeless heap. She stands frozen for a second and Killian takes the transitory moment to catch his breath (he doesn't know when he started breathing heavily). When she rotates to face his general direction, her expression is hard, unreadable. Something has shifted between them, he can feel it from miles away.

She deftly retrieves the comms from her pocket and pulls the microphone roughly to her lips.

"Meet me at Granny's in four hours."

(The quaint coffee shop he passed on the drive up here flashes in his mind's eye).

Unwilling to wait for an answer, she throws the comms device on the ground and jumps into the now-humming vehicle. He watches her as she tears away from the deserted road in a cloud of dust and debris. And he knows he is completely, utterly, totally and royally screwed.

8888

"What's all this for?"

He stares at the heavy bag on the linoleum table in Granny's, the same one she dumped in front of him only seconds earlier.

"I don't like unpaid debts. This is for saving my life," she responds coldly. His eyes widen when he hesitantly pulls back the zipper to reveal several large wads of cash.

His eyes dart up to meet hers. She is still covered in ash and blood and the few people scattered around the establishment are staring.

"And this is how much you think your life is worth?" he asks, incredulity woven carefully into his tone. She picks up on it, the recognition making her eyes twitch and narrow.

Emma nods curtly.

He surveys the money once more before sliding the bag back in her direction and shaking his head.

"I didn't save your life so you could pay me."

"Well I'm sure as fuck not sleeping with you as gratitude, so what do you want?"

He grins lasciviously but otherwise considers her question with idle curiosity. While the idea of sleeping with Emma definitely has crossed his mind once or twice (or perhaps _several _times), it would be bad form to extort it out if her. Besides, he wants that particular occasion to be a conscious decision on her part: not some convoluted symbol of gratitude.

Eventually, he shrugs and stands from the cafe booth.

"I don't want anything."

But Emma catches his elbow, her iron grip firm enough that it holds him in place. He looks up to meet her stormy gaze. She drops her hand immediately and glares, "I don't like unfinished business."

Killian shrugs.

"Maybe I'm just a philanthropist."

"If that's true, you're in the wrong line of work."

"Perhaps I am."

He notes the stubborn set to her jaw as she holds his gaze. He also notes the feint desperation there: like this is gnawing at her bones the same way it is gnawing at his. Though certainly for different reasons. Things are different now, and she clearly doesn't like that. There is a heavy, bone-weary sigh and then he mutters, "_Fine_. I'll take the money."

The bag is looped over his shoulder in one swift movement.

8888

He dumps the money in a trash can outside.

He knows why he saved her.

And it wasn't because he wanted something from her.

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><p><strong>You know there's always that defining moment where things <em>really <em>begin to shift in a story? That just there was it.**


	12. Chapter 12

**This might be slightly angstier than what you were all expecting from this prompt. Sorry. The muse wants what it wants.**

**prompt: converging upon the same mark, which Killian also happens to be in the process of seducing (basically, jealous!Emma)**

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><p><em>12. <em>_if I fall short: Emma is avoiding him, so why is she the one who is angry?_

Lazy smirk fixed in place, he leans closer, dipping his eyes to her lips deliberately slow so she can catch the movement. Her gaze is burning into him with the precision of a laser, green eyes distantly assessing, even as he works his well-honed charms - playing on the dormant lust in her system with a practiced ease.

This is what he knows.

This is what he's best at.

The game of seduction has always been his greatest strength.

And, watching as the haze of attraction slackens her jaw, softening her features, he feels a mix of success and disappointment. Because he's got her trapped in his orbit, hopelessly endeared to the pleasure he's wordlessly promising.

But her eyes are the wrong shade of green and her hair is a darker blonde and her face is pinched with plastic surgery.

(She's not _Emma_, a small voice whispers in his head.)

(He promptly tells that voice to be quiet with the aid of several unmentionable profanities.)

He can't quite place the root of his disenchantment. Even if he doesn't outwardly show it, it digs into his chest to leave a deep crevasse. One that he cannot fill, regardless of the drink he imbibes and the women he takes to bed. The minx has wheedled her way into his very being, ingrained herself in his soul.

He tells himself it's just because he's curious. It's not often he finds himself being rebuffed by women (or men, for that matter).

Let alone _ignored_.

It is unparalleled – an unprecedented reaction to his person.

Which is exactly what she's been doing for the past three weeks: ignoring him. He knows she hasn't just miraculously disappeared - he's had Jefferson keeping tabs on her. That voice momentarily pipes up again, whispering words like 'concern' but he dismisses it with unnecessary vigor.

Ever since he saved her life, she's been avoiding him like the plague and she must have upgraded her comms because they've been nigh impossible to hack. He doesn't really want to ask why saving her life was such an issue. After all, he knows the answer.

It means he cares.

And caring only gets you killed.

He convinces himself he doesn't _really_ care.

He reminds himself every day that he never cared.

(He knows he is, in fact, a big fat fucking liar.)

The woman in front of him (his mark: Madame Franco) jolts him back to the present when her fingers begin to drift down the sides of his waist. Her acrylic nails are too sharp against his skin, but he hides his wince well with a feral grin she mistakes for lust.

"So," she purrs, wafting closer to him with hooded eyes, "Where do you suppose we do this?"

There's a bitter taste in his mouth. He assuages his barely concealed disdain with the self-decreed reassurance that this woman will be dead long before she can lay her greedy hands on him. But he needs her completely alone first - and that's never going to happen in a nightclub like this.

So he smirks and suggests the hotel next door.

She agrees and they leave swiftly thereafter. It's only as they are exiting the brightly lit bar that he swears he sees a flash of unmistakable gold hair.

For the umpteenth time, he assures himself it's not her. Even if his gut churns in unmistakable recognition.

8888

Madame Franco decides she cannot wait until they reach the hotel room to touch him, pressing herself against the length of him the moment they are left alone in the elevator. He groans inwardly, because he can do nothing but play along with the surveillance cameras glaring down at him. So he kisses her back when she closes the distance between them, trying and failing spectacularly to lose himself in this woman he will kill before the night has ended.

His reprieve comes in the form of the elevator doors opening on their room's floor and he disengages under the guise of eagerness. Well, it's not really a guise - he _is _eager. To stick a knife in her throat and be done with it.

She sways past him as they find themselves at the door, trying for sultry and coming up empty. Mercifully, it only takes one try for the door to click open. Of course, Madame Franco turns to kiss him roughly before she shoves the door back by kicking it. Her fingers are cinched in his hair, uncomfortably tight, as she drags him through the corridor to where the bedroom awaits.

A breeze pushes her dirty blonde hair into his face just so and he stiffens.

Hotels don't leave windows open.

And he's never subscribed to coincidence.

Madame Franco notices his rigidity and pulls away, tilting her head to the side in question.

He spots Emma just before she shoots, a strange look on her flushed face.

The woman with smudged lipstick grunts at the impact of the bullet, eyes blown wide as she falls forward, a deed red spot blooming between her shoulder blades. Emma's arm is still raised and he turns to face her, wiping the lipstick from his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. She notices the gesture and drops the weapon, unscrewing the silencer with an unnecessary amount of force.

"So you _are _alive," he cracks, swaggering forward. She catches the unmistakable bite in his tone and narrows her eyes as she tucks away her gun.

"Stunning observation, ass hole. You seem to be alive and well too. Can't say the same for your _friend _here," she returns caustically, glaring at the dead body lying across the carpeted floor.

"Don't be jealous, sweetheart," he jibes, baring his teeth.

Emma's previously averted gaze snaps up to meet his, muted recognition appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye before she scoffs and dismisses the claim. But he catches the glimmer of emotion, and he stares at her - agitation waning as he tries to piece together her motivations.

He was only joking…

Surely, she wasn't _actually _jealous?

For some reason, he feels the need to explain himself.

"Swan… You don't actually think I wanted to…" he begins, trying to catch her gaze.

She is not fazed though, continuing with her relentless clean-up - wiping down the gun, depositing it in the tight black holster on her thigh.

"And you couldn't have gotten her alone in an _alley _or _the ladies room_ or her _fucking car,_" she spits sarcastically, staring at her hands as she meanders around.

"You've done the research too, love. You and I both know Franco was too kitschy to let me lure her somewhere dark and dingy. And besides, I don't – I mean - I wasn't planning on _actually _-"

"Why do you think I care?" is her barbed interruption, acrimony hiding the barely discernible veins of jealousy weaving in and out of her voice.

"You can do what you want with whoever you want. I just wanted the kill," she adds dismissively. It's a lie, and the full force of that smacks him upside the head with stunning force. Enough to stun him for a second. When he shakes it off, her gear is tucked away and she's heading for the window where a series of thick ropes are awaiting her attention.

Killian stalks her across the room, "You were in the club, weren't you? I saw you there."

"So what if I was?" Emma whirs on her heel to face him, jade eyes dark with anger and frustration and fear and maybe the tiniest hint of jealousy, "Doesn't change a damn thing. I was just keeping an eye on the target. Waiting for her to isolate herself - thankfully, _you_ did that for me. That's that. She's dead. I'm leaving to collect my pay."

If she thought she could pull _that_ lie over his head, she's kidding herself.

Killian snatches the ropes she's binding around her midsection away, holding them at arms length when she tries to grab them back.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

He needs to hear the answer. And it's one she's just not willing to give. She kicks him behind the knee and wrangles the ropes from his hand as he stumbles on the spot, securing herself and stepping up to the ledge.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Whatever."

She moves to jump and he jaunts forward, catching her elbow and yanking her away. She's not getting away that easily - not when he's been unable to find her for weeks. He wants an explanation - the need for it is simmering in his blood, an inveterate ache in the very marrow of his bones.

"No. Tell me why," he demands.

Emma tries to wrench her arm from his grip again and stumbles, almost falling over the edge at an awkward (potentially fatal) angle. Except Killian manages to snake an arm around her waist, steadying her against his torso to keep her from toppling over. The only problem, of course, is that it puts them in dangerously close proximity.

Her gaze burns into him, breath fluttering across his face as she grips his upper arms for support. That he doesn't pull away tells him enough about her effect on him; the feeling of her pressed against him from hip to shoulder near intoxicating.

"I don't answer to you," she hisses, "Now, let me go or I'll shoot you like I did in Colorado. Only this time, I won't _miss._"

The connotation that she'd been aiming to kill that time knocks the wind out of him.

His shoulder prickles, the small puckered scar tingling to life, and his face turns to ice. With cold eyes and stiff movements, he removes his arms and takes several long steps back. Their gazes never jump, locked in place. Even as she resumes her place at the precipice, swallowing thickly before jumping down, down, down.

He cannot help himself. He shuffles towards the edge to see if she landed okay. She did. And she throws one last glance up in his direction before sprinting down the dark street.

(She bites down on the bitter anger and jealousy swelling in her gut as she makes her way back to her safehouse.)

(She _doesn't_ care.)

(She hates that she knows she's lying to herself.)

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><p><strong>Well, you got a tiny snippet of Emma's POV. So, there's that.<strong>

**Reviews are wishes for Emma to put aside the shit and just accept her feelings?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Because they had to make up eventually.**

**And profuse apologies for the long wait (that pesky little thing called life got in the way)**

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><p><em>13. <em>_we belong far down below: Killian is in a sticky situation._

They say you can tell a lot about a person by what torture methods they use. Or something like that (the real idiom is far less fascinating, if you ask him).

If Killian had to comment on the lanky motherfucker electrocuting him right now, he's got to assume its some form of overcompensation. Why else would the bastard be trying to turn him into a human potato crisp when all he did was calmly instruct him, in his native language, to eat shit and die?

Bloody oversensitive prick.

As the electric current finally ceases its agonizing path through his damp body, Killian's head falls forward, chin against sweat-soaked chest. He's breathing heavily; he can feel his heart beating a staccato against his ribs, threatening to erupt from the fragile cage of bones and onto the floor. With trembling limbs, he forces his head up.

Even if he hadn't, the bald man with his finger on the switch would have – his bony fingers dig into Killian's chin and tilt his head further back. With muddled thoughts, Killian recalls that his name is something like Letchovitch, and he is his mark's right-hand man. Which is how he got into this mess in the first place.

He needed information on his mark, a one: Mr Carlos Loretti.

How he came to be in the chair, he cannot honestly recall the details. By now, it's all just a hazy slur of blurry images - jumping (recklessly) into the fray, fighting with abandon, trying to lose himself in the methodical dance of combat (anything to avoid the residual hollow feeling that has taken root deep in the recesses of his chest). He vaguely recalls a sloppy manoeuvre, pain rocketing from the back of his head, blackness…

And then he woke up in a chair. And there were wires.

And pain.

A whole fucking lot of it.

He is drawn from his reverie when the man's grip tightens painfully on his jaw.

"Who sent you?" Letchovitch asks, his accent thick enough that the words are almost unintelligible.

"_Please_," he pants pathetically, "speak your own language because you fucking suck at mine." He grins in spite of his stinging muscles and sweat-slick brow. Anything to aggravate the locals.

"Fool."

His aggressor rips his fingers away, leaving shallow scratches – only to ball that same hand and knock him in the jaw. White lights appear behind Killian's lids for a moment as he closes his eyes and spits out the blood in his mouth. His eyes are blurry when he turns back to see the man wetting his cloth.

Killian groans under his breath. Already tensing his grip on the chair.

Gods, if only the man would let up he might have a chance to escape these rudimentary binds. But he can't do it in full sight of his captor, not without getting caught. And subsequently shot.

The man returns and douses him with water, enough that he has to tilt his head down and spit to avoid choking.

Which is precisely when he hears a gunshot, several rather loud gunshots actually. Letchovitch retrieves a knife and instantly jumps to stand behind Killian, pressing the blade precariously to his neck and watching the door.

It bursts open and, standing there, is Emma.

He doesn't really know how to feel about it. Ever since the incident in Prague, she's been avoiding him. They have only crossed paths once in the wake of what he has affectionately dubbed the 'ridiculous-overreaction-to-saving-her-life' escapade. Back in Paris, when he was seducing Madame Franco in order to take her out. Her thinly-veiled indignation haunts him; the unmistakable ice in her tone as she jumped from the balcony.

He's always known she has walls.

But damn, if it doesn't hurt all the same.

"Marco Letchovitch, I've been looking all over for you," Emma sing-songs in a seamless impersonation of the man's native tongue, striding into the room with her weapon held high. He sees her spare him a look, sees the way her eyes darken as she takes in his disheveled appearance. She gestures offhandedly to Killian, "Why don't you let that one go and we can go a couple rounds, hm? You can tell me where your boss Loretti is?"

Instead, Letchovitch tightens his grip on Killian's hair, "Go to hell, bitch."

The knife digs harder into the fragile skin of his neck and he moans a little as he prepares for it to be drawn in a narrow virgule across lifeline, severing the thread of his existence in one quick swipe. But the fatal blow never comes and when he opens his eyes (he isn't quite sure when he closed them), he sees Emma's gun is raised just a little higher and there's a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Tilting his head just so, he can see Letchovitch's body behind him – a bullet right between his shock-widened eyes.

Relief washes through Killian in a cold wave. But also surprise, because that was their only direct line to Loretti and the only chance they would have had to reach the arms dealer in a viable time frame.

Soft, warm fingers brush the ravaged skin of his wrists and he looks down to find Emma crouching in front of him. She keeps her eyes on her task, ridding him of his rope shackles and disconnecting wires until he slumps forward in the chair. He watches her all the while, studying the delicate curve of her brow as she works to release him.

When she does, and he almost falls, she catches him with a firm, "Hey, hey, hey. Come on, ass hole. I didn't shoot that dick-bag for nothing."

The exhaustion is catching up with him and he frowns groggily at her as she lifts him into a standing position, taking on most of his weight as she draws one of his arms over her shoulders.

"Why did you shoot him?" he asks, "He was the only connection to Loretti."

Emma's lips thin into a line. She doesn't answer, just drags him, stumbling, from the room.

8888

Later, when he's bandaged and stable and sitting on the edge of her bed (she took him back to her safe-house), he cannot help the bitterness that boils up in him. He hasn't seen her in months now; she could have been dead for all he knew. And the last time he saw her she was a right bitch. And they aren't even really friends. And it's downright _irrational_, but he's angry in a way he's never been before.

Wincing, he tugs a fresh shirt roughly over his head. She is leaning against the opposite wall, observing him. As he shoves his arm through one sleeve, he glances up at her.

"So I guess I should pay you now. Will five thousand do the trick?"

"Shut up, Jones," Emma snaps, just as sharp.

Killian stands and takes a slow, deliberate step in her direction. This time, he doesn't drop her gaze, but holds it steadily, intensely; probing for an answer he needs her to give.

"Why shouldn't I?" he asks, jaw clenching.

She sighs and rubs her forehead, obscuring his view of her face in any way she can: looking away, letting her hair fall forward in a curtain, shrugging to deflect. It's one of her techniques, her way of hiding from things that are too intense or too emotionally compromising. He's learnt her tics the same way she's learnt his. So he knows that what she says is not only the truth, but encompasses a level of sentimental depth she is not familiar or comfortable with.

"Because I know you ditched the cash I gave you… And I didn't save you so you could pay me."

It's as close to an explanation as he'll get.

It's also as close to an apology as he'll get (he hears the tentative undercurrent of '_I'm sorry_' even if he doesn't acknowledge it). He doesn't press her, nodding stiffly in silent acceptance before moving towards the mini-fridge. When he brings them both back a drink and takes a seat on the edge of the chest of drawers, he distinctly hears a sound of disgust as she scoffs under her breath to her auburn bottle, "_Only five thousand_."

It makes him smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Ta daaaaa<strong>

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